


five times sherlock played for john, and one time john couldn't hold back

by ellawho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual John Watson, Bisexual Panic, Blowjobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, But also a bit of a bratty bottom, Childhood Trauma, Dirty Talk, First Kiss, First Time, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson Has a Filthy Mouth, John Watson has a hand kink, John Watson is an Idiot, Kitchen Sex, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is eager to please, Slow Burn, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Texting, These idiots are too horny to move to the bedroom, Top John Watson, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yearning, but don't we all, john loves it when sherlock plays the violin, set during season 1, the title says it all basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellawho/pseuds/ellawho
Summary: It's been a little over a week since Sherlock has turned John's life upside down, and it's not long until the doctor hears his flatmate play the violin for the first time. Mesmerised by how good he is, John hopes to have the chance to listen to him play again, in the near future. Sherlock complies. Several times.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 67





	1. Vulnerability

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! ella again. i had this idea for a multi chapter fic after i watched The Red Violin some weeks ago and i couldn't not write it. do buckle up: this is gonna feature a LOT of yearning and unresolved sexual tension... until it's eventually resolved, so do hold on ;) patience is a virtue. 
> 
> i wanna thank my dear friend Spencer for beta-ing yet once again, i love you !
> 
> ps. additional tags are gonna be added as soon as i post new chapters. same for the rate: it's gonna switch from mature to explicit once we reach the smutty parts :) 
> 
> last thing before we start (i promise). english is not my first language so bear with me! 
> 
> enjoy !!

The first time John heard Sherlock play the violin was during a quiet winter afternoon. He’d just gotten back home from two hours spent out and about, the queue at the post office having been longer than usual. He was tired, his feet hurt from sustaining the weight of his body for far longer than it was advised in a standing position. His head was pounding, his shoulder was killing him, and blaming his physical condition on the gloomy weather of London wasn’t going to improve his mood in any way.

He closed the main door with a muffled thud and leant back to rely the weight of his upper body on the solid surface. Sighing in relief, he closed his eyes for a moment. It was nice to have something different to support him other than his poor, worn out legs.

As the pain subsided to a fuzzy, tingly sensation that spread through his tired muscles, he heard it. A sublime, sharp melody that came slithering down from upstairs, an echo of the tensed strings of a violin that was being played with a certain expertise. The tune was captivating, almost alluring, in a way only music could be. It whispered to him, it spoke directly to his heart, and to the whirl of emotions spiralling out of his chest upon hearing it.

The realisation came in quickly: the doctor knew Sherlock played the violin, as it was one of the first things he said upon introducing himself about three weeks before, when they first met.

What he hadn’t known, until then at least, was if he was _good_ at it.

His doubts dissipated all at once.

The music didn’t stop, yet increased in intensity when John approached the staircase and started climbing the seventeen creaking steps that led to his flat.

Twelve steps in, and the notes coming from the violin dropped an octave. The music was velvety soft, feathery, even as it rose from the instrument in a lascivious crescendo. For a second John wondered if Sherlock was holding himself back, not letting the melody take the lead yet, because the sound had withdrawn into the frame of his Stradivarius, contained, lingering there as the man made a long pause, waiting for the reprise.

John had reached the top of the staircase when Sherlock started playing once more. His curious eyes studied the detective with discretion, almost as though he was afraid to interrupt this moment of intimacy between him and his beloved instrument. Dark blue eyes set upon the darkened silhouette of his flatmate as he stood by the window, violin settled in the crook between his neck and cheek, chin rest supporting his head as he leant into the instrument.

John stood motionless on the threshold, arms at his sides, wonder in his eyes.

Sherlock mustn’t have noticed his presence, in fact he hadn’t stopped nor turned, body slowly swinging to the rhythm of the bewitching melody.

Since he was completely turned to face the window, John’s view was quite limited. He debated whether to step closer and observe him from a different perspective, but part of him feared that he would’ve caused too much bother. After all, Sherlock did specify that he played the violin when he was _thinking._ God forbid John intervened and stopped… whatever kind of trance he’d slipped into.

The music died down into a feeble decrescendo and silence fell in the flat. John held his breath, and observed how Sherlock adjusted himself on his feet before tightening up the bow to play a quick arpeggio.

The doctor’s jaw dropped in a soundless gasp, raptured by the effortlessness with which Sherlock was playing it. He couldn’t see his fingers but he could picture the way they must be moving swiftly across the strings, pressing up and down to reach for each different cord.

The arpeggio was in strong contrast to the rest of the melody and its mysterious tones. It was sudden, energetic, a flash of anger that had been carried throughout the whole piece from the very beginning, but that was only then released in quick and furious movements of the bow.

John was ecstatic.

The bowing stopped. Sherlock seemed enthralled by the power of his own music. He repositioned the bow against the strings and repeated the arpeggio, more slowly this time, savouring each and every note. He went through some variations of the same arpeggio, moving toward the reprise; and there it was again, the ethereal melody that had enchanted John from the very first moment he heard it.

It whispered in the doctor’s ear through a seductive murmur, spurring him on, prompting him to take a step closer to his flatmate. Just a _single,_ little step…

The magic was broken.

Sherlock stopped playing, a screeching sound coming from the strings of his Stradivarius when he abruptly ceased to stroke them.

 _Fuck_.

“I’m _so_ sorry I didn’t-” John started, but he was soon cut off by the quickness with which Sherlock turned around and locked his eyes with his.

“Oh, hello, John. Enjoying my solo? ”

John let out a shaky breath through his mouth. Judging by the placid tone of his voice, Sherlock wasn’t mad.

“Oh- oh yeah I… That was very good, Sherlock. Very, _very_ good.”

“Glad you enjoyed. You bought the groceries I see. You can leave them on the kitchen table, I’ll help put them away when I’m done thinking.” And as if nothing had happened whatsoever, not even their brief conversation, Sherlock turned around once again and started playing once more.

John did as instructed, even if he’d rather sit in his armchair and enjoy his little private concerto. Perhaps another time.

He walked to the kitchen, grimaced at the mess that his flatmate had made of the kitchen table, and settled the bags on the single spot that hadn’t been occupied by Sherlock’s garbage.

He found out that putting away the groceries while being lulled by Sherlock’s playing wasn’t bad at all. On the contrary, he enjoyed it.

John wondered if he would be lucky enough to be welcomed by Sherlock’s music every time he came back home from errands. The thought of it made him smile, as he put an egg carton away in the side compartment of the fridge.

The music stopped some seconds later, this time for good. John was almost done with the groceries, though it looked like Sherlock had forgotten about his previous offer. In fact, after putting his violin back inside its case, he walked to the desk and sat at his laptop.

Ten minutes later, John emerged from the kitchen, a fuming hot cuppa between his hands.

“I made tea. Fancy some?” he asked, sitting in his usual spot by the fireplace. “Sherlock?”

But the detective didn’t reply.

Five minutes later, Sherlock was glancing up from his laptop, looking rather confused.

“Did you say something?”

“I asked you if you wanted tea.” Pause. “About five minutes ago.”

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

“I suppose it’ll need some heating up.”

“And I suppose you won’t mind doing it for me?”

John sighed, rolled his eyes, but got up anyway. A couple of minutes later he was back to the sitting room, another cuppa in hand. “Here,” he said and placed it next to Sherlock's laptop.

“Thank you.” Sherlock, seemed too deep in thought to look back at him.

“So… the piece you were playing… what’s it called?”

This time the detective immediately looked up and squinted his eyes, as he would oftentimes do when he was getting ready to deduce someone. “ _Scheherazade_ by the Russian composer _Korsakov_.”

“It was stunning.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s not that. I…”

Sherlock’s eyes bored into the doctor’s as he waited for a reply. They’d been narrowed down to a tight slit, his pupils practically invisible from where John was sitting. For some reason, he looked rather interested in what John had to say. The doctor shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“I just think that you play that melody incredibly well. Your… bowing, is it? It’s impeccable. I… you’re amazing.”

Sherlock hesitated a single moment, but then he relaxed his forehead completely. Someone who didn’t know him at all could have said he’d been positively surprised at the comment, but it wasn’t John’s case. He’d known the man for a little less than a month but, as far as he was concerned, it’d been long enough to understand the basics of how he worked. Sherlock rarely got surprised, and when he did, it was generally about something concerning his work.

John picked that up because of the innumerable conversations they shared on the topic: according to his point of view, there was nothing worthy of his attention _and_ surprise when it came to people. Human beings were vacant, always running with the crowd in their predictability, lacking the much more appreciated element of surprise.

“I was just reproducing a classical masterpiece, that is all.”

John huffed out a laugh. “You say that as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

“I know it isn’t.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

John could see Sherlock frown again. Oh, he was _definitely_ enjoying this, showering him in compliments just to confuse him. He liked it, he really did. No reason whatsoever. “You look a bit lost. Did I say anything wrong?” John continued.

“Most of the people that hear me play find it shrill.”

“Shrill?!” John almost choked on his tea. “Well, these people are bloody idiots. They clearly can’t appreciate the beauty of your music and, you know, it’s a complete shame.”

“It’s not _mine._ ”

“You know what I mean.” John looked up from his cup and caught it again, the weird look on Sherlock’s face. He had to double check before actually realising that he’d already encountered it on just a single occasion. It was in fact the same look that Sherlock had that day on the crime scene, when John wouldn’t stop complimenting him.

“Are you surprised?” He couldn’t help himself. He had to ask.

“Does that surprise you?” Sly of him, answering a question with another question.

“Perhaps. I thought you didn’t think much of people who compliment you.”

“You’re not people.”

There was something about the way Sherlock said those exact words that made them sound like a compliment. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they weren’t. John doubted he’d get a reply if he asked him, so he opted for the easiest option.

“… Thank you?”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips curled into something that vaguely recalled a smirk, but it was long gone before John could realise that he managed to make Sherlock smile.

“So, will I be able to hear more of it?”

Sherlock’s fingers resumed their frantic typing. For a moment, John wondered what got his complete attention and _if_ whatever he had to say on the matter was important. Could it be a new blog post? John had visited his site, days before moving in. He really had no clue what the fuss was all about. Did people really find it interesting? After all, most of the things he posted on there were inaccessible to average readers.

“If you’re fortunate enough to catch me thinking.”

“If I’m fortunate enough, yeah.”

“Problem?”

“You’re always thinking. I was just lucky to walk in on you having a _fancy_ thinking session.”

There was a pause during which none of them spoke, John sipping at his cuppa and Sherlock slipping in and out of his trance, alternating moments of frantic typing to moments of deep reflection.

“Can I ask you something?” John spoke after a while, and his words earned a disinterested hum from Sherlock’s behalf.

“What is it that you think about when you compose?”

“It changes, depending on the situation. Trains of thoughts are hardly stationary. One thought usually leads to another, and so on. It’s hard to think about the same thing for an extended period of time.”

“I see. And these… mutable trains of thoughts… what are they related to, usually?”

“Cases I’m working on, unsolved ones, mental notes. Anything that needs thinking. Why are you interested?”

John smirked. “Do I need a reason to make conversation now?”

“I find aimless conversations a huge waste of time.”

“Is curiosity not a valid purpose?”

Sherlock arched his eyebrows. “You’re curious. You want to know more about me.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do, _yes._ ”

“Why?”

It was incredible how Sherlock managed to excel in whatever fell under his fields of interest, but he tended to be completely oblivious to the majority of social conventions.

“Because we’re flatmates, because we live together and I saved your bloody life once! What’s so weird about wanting to know you a bit more?”

Sherlock seemed startled by his statement. “People usually aren’t interested in knowing me. They like to keep a distance.”

And perhaps it had been the way Sherlock said those words, subtle pain sneaking its way through each syllable, that made John feel a twinge between his ribs. Looking up to meet the detective’s eyes, he could swear he spotted that fleeting hint of sadness flashing across his icy blue irises. It dissolved into that sea of glass as quickly as it appeared, leaving his eyes immaculate, unstained, immune to its power.

For the first time in almost a month, John finally started to consider that, perhaps, the real problem didn’t lie in Sherlock, but in the people he unconsciously had surrounded himself with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this is how i imagined Sherlock would play this composition!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmKGjzyLYQ4)
> 
> enjoy :)


	2. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time John walks in on Sherlock playing, things work out differently...

A week later, John had to re-evaluate his life decisions. It turned out that coming back home from errands could end up being a complete disaster if Sherlock Holmes was running out of new cases to solve.

When John left the flat for job hunting that morning, he had no clue what he would be coming back to. He still hadn’t had the chance to witness how incredibly unhinged his flatmate could become when he didn’t obtain what he wanted, and, worst of all, when he was _bored_.

A whirlwind of notes accompanied the doctor as he made his way upstairs, each of them heavy with anger and frustration. It didn’t take a genius to come to the conclusion that the man playing them wasn’t having a pleasant day at all.

This time, Sherlock knew his flatmate was there before he could enter the sitting room, his senses sharp and vigilant like those of a predator. He turned on his heels and marched toward John, and the closer he strode, the angrier the music sounded. For a moment, the doctor wondered if he should be scared of the impassive look on Sherlock’s features.

A quick glance was offered in John’s direction, a look that most unobservant people would have considered meaningless and rather innocuous, but that John recognised as one of Sherlock’s most dangerous: the _deductive_ one.

“Oh, don’t beat yourself up about that workplace, they clearly weren’t in for personnel recruitment. Though I suppose you should call back the woman that kindly offered you her phone number. Or was it a man? I wouldn’t know, I fail to notice these sorts of frivolities.”

John straightened up, immediately being on the defensive, and Sherlock must have noticed it because he stepped even closer and _sniffed_ him _,_ rolling his eyes afterwards. “Oh, please. Don’t even try to deny it. I can practically smell sexual desire on you.”

Though, the most infuriating thing for John wasn’t even his ability to read him like a book. It was the way in which Sherlock had kept playing his violin all through their little “conversation,” violently stroking its strings in quick and _furious_ motions. It was almost unnerving to behold.

“A woman,” the doctor tried to say, not even bothering to ask how he knew all this. Though just before nearing the reprise, Sherlock turned his back and walked away instead.

That’s when John stopped hearing and started _listening._

The song he was playing had started to sound familiar, its ominous tones elevating from the instrument and filling the room with rage and turmoil. John definitely knew it, though he couldn’t actually recall _who_ composed it. He figured asking Sherlock wasn’t a good idea.

The doctor took a step forward and frowned when Sherlock began playing the same arpeggio over and over again. At first he thought it was part of the original composition, but after a few times he’d played it, it had started to lose its initial allure.

The more Sherlock played it, the more disharmonious it sounded. Each note burst out through the strings, the pressure of the bow against the chords increasing stroke by stroke, until nothing but a screeching, cacophonous sound was audible.

“Sherlock!” John called out, over the terrible melody. “Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? You’re gonna snap the bloody strings! Sit down. Take a deep breath.”

Sherlock did stop playing, but just to turn to his flatmate and glare at him. “I’m perfectly capable of recognising when one of the strings is at snapping risk, John. Now, will you please go upstairs and text that person for God’s sake?”

“What.. Why do you care?”

“Did you not hear what I just told you?!”

Perhaps it wasn’t one of the strings that was on the brim of snapping. John was a bit concerned. He’d never seen Sherlock this worked up over something before. Maybe it was best if he followed his advice and locked himself up in the quietness of his room, away from the shrill sound of Sherlock’s anger.

And so he did.

*

Droplets of water fell heavy and plump against the windowpane, gliding in tight rivulets as they came in contact with the slippery surface. The storm had started violently in the early afternoon, washing away some of the bitterness in John’s mouth after his brief encounter with a much agitated Sherlock. The doctor hadn’t left his bedroom ever since: in fact, he’d stayed in bed for a little over an hour, a far-off look on his tired face, and his stomach churning in hunger.

It was past lunchtime, and John hadn’t found it in himself to go downstairs and get something to eat. The problem wasn’t Sherlock; he knew the detective was more than happy to ignore him. It was his _playing._ It hadn’t stopped, on the contrary, it had intensified upon the arrival of the storm, almost as though Sherlock wanted to project his anger onto something bigger, something that didn’t need controlling. It was scary, though also eerily fascinating. But, _God,_ John wished he’d at least change the tune.

He’d been stuck on the same sequence of notes for God knows how long – John had given up listening anyway. The sound of the violin coming from downstairs had turned into a hushed whine, muffled by the violence of the roaring thunder bouncing off the walls of the flat. John looked up for a moment. From the angle he was laying in, a fairly big portion of sky was visible. Utter darkness reigned, until sudden splashes of light ripped through the gloom when a lightning bolt stretched out into the clouds like tree branches. The doctor winced at the rumble that followed up. His eyes immediately fluttered closed, his heart picked up the pace, hammering in his ribcage, thrumming so hard he could hear it echoing in his ears.

John luckily recognised the symptoms of an impromptu panic attack before things got out of hand. He sat up, eyes still closed, trying to control his already ragged breathing. Though when he tried to ground himself by clutching the edges of the blanket, he noticed his hands were shaking.

_Collect yourself, Watson. Collect yourself._

A second later, his phone pinged. It was a message from Sherlock.

> _Are you doing all right?_
> 
> What? Why are you asking?
> 
> _The thunderstorm is quite heavy today. Do you need assistance?_
> 
> Who do you think I am? A three years old?!
> 
> _PTSD is oftentimes triggered by the exposure to stimuli that the brain collected during the traumatic experience that caused it. I wondered if the intensity of the thunderstorm was reminding you of gunfire. Hence my question._

John stopped to look down at his fingers, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. They were still shaking, but not as much as they were a couple of minutes ago. He didn’t even _think_ about the possibility of thunder being a trigger, though Sherlock did. Of course he did. Always ahead of him, the clever bastard.

Though John figured that talking to Sherlock did help, in some way. It made him feel lighter, like in that moment he had little to worry about. It was a nice alternative to the consistent urge to punch him in the face – which was daily occurrence, anyway.

Sherlock wasn’t an easy flatmate. Not that the doctor had something to be surprised about: Sherlock said it as a warning on the first day they met. A little over a month had passed, and yet it felt like a _lifetime._ John and Sherlock seemed to have gotten into the swing of things from the very first day of flat sharing. They fell into each other’s life habits and became co-dependent within weeks in the most natural of ways. It was pleasurable, something John had never quite experienced before, something new and exciting. Perhaps the explanation resided in the fact that Sherlock had so easily become his _friend_ before even becoming his flatmate.

John didn’t even realise it, but he was smiling down at his phone. He cleared his throat and finally typed out his reply.

> Ah. Yes. Thanks for asking. I’m doing better now.
> 
> _Good._
> 
> At least you finally stopped playing.
> 
> _Problem?_
> 
> Oh no, it was just becoming a bit exhausting.
> 
> You know, same tune over and over again…
> 
> Not that it wasn’t good, but…
> 
> _Dance of the knights, by Prokofiev._
> 
> Oh. Ta.
> 
> _Given your interest last time…_
> 
> Yeah. You’re pretty awesome mate. Pretty awesome indeed.
> 
> _I asked Mrs Hudson to cook you something for lunch. Considering she’s hardly ever late, she’ll be upstairs in seven minutes._
> 
> You didn’t have to do that. I was going to come down soon anyway.
> 
> _It’s 2:07 and you usually have lunch at 12:30. I was wondering how long it would’ve taken you to realise that you skipped your primary meal._
> 
> I was just hiding in my bedroom because someone told me to. 
> 
> _I see the chatting with your love interest didn’t go through._
> 
> She isn’t my love interest. And how would you know anyway??
> 
> _You wouldn’t be replying to my texts this quickly if you were engaged in something far more interesting._

Incredible. That’s what Sherlock Holmes was. Bloody incredible. John was smiling again. Christ, _why_ was he smiling?

> _I know._
> 
> Excuse me?
> 
> _I know I’m incredible._
> 
> How…?

He didn’t write it or say it out loud, did he?

> _You’ve been typing and stopping for the past ten seconds, indicating that you’ve been thinking through what to say after my fairly obvious deduction. It’s something you do all the time, not just over text. You try to come up with a new exclamation every time, though you always end up using the same ones. Incredible. Brilliant. Amazing._
> 
> You’re really bloody bored today, aren’t you?
> 
> _The last case I’ve worked on was two weeks ago, and it didn’t even require your assistance._
> 
> Want me to have a word with Lestrade?
> 
> _If you want to try. He won’t listen to me._
> 
> You’ve been pestering him huh?
> 
> _Define “pestering”._
> 
> Oh, shut up. You could’ve just told me you were bored you know? I would’ve figured something out.
> 
> _Would you?_
> 
> Anything to make you stop playing. ;)

John stared at the winking face he just unconsciously sent to his _male_ flatmate and stopped to think: he only, exclusively used that face when his intentions were anything but innocent. A sudden look of confusion appeared on his face as the realisation struck him. Was he bloody _flirting_ with Sherlock Holmes?

The faint ping coming from his phone startled him.

> _Anything?_

“Yeah, Christ. Anything.” John ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. This wasn’t a good idea: Sherlock had made his position clear that night at Angelo’s. He was married to his work, and he didn’t nurture any kind of interest in…

> Sex.

Oh no.

 _Oh no._ He didn’t just… Jesus fucking Christ. John almost dropped his phone as panic washed over him. He tried to hold down the message and delete it, but it was too late. Sherlock had already read it.

> _Excuse me?_
> 
> Not what I meant
> 
> Christ, no.
> 
> Fuck, no, sorry, that was…
> 
> I didn’t mean to send that. I don’t even know how I wrote that.
> 
> I meant “anything”. Yes.
> 
> Sorry. I’m so sorry.
> 
> _Alright._

Good lord. Blood rushed upward and tinted John’s cheeks of a dark shade of red. He was burning with embarrassment, his heart thrumming in his chest at his god damned Freudian slip. He couldn’t believe he’d been so distracted to let that happen. Fucking incredible.

In one swift motion, John locked his phone and shoved it under a pillow. He crouched down, hid his face in the palm of his hands and started praying to God that what he just said wasn’t going to make things awkward between him and Sherlock. After making a fool of himself in the presence of the last person on Earth he should have been allowed to, going downstairs for lunch was definitely off the table. Starving himself to death was beginning to sound more appealing, anyway.

His phone pinged again, but this time the doctor decided to ignore it. It was probably Sherlock again, perhaps reminding him of his freshly cooked lunch waiting for him on the dining table – though he couldn’t care less. The damage was done.

John waited on his bed for what seemed like hours, listening to the sound of rain splattering against the rooftops. The thunderstorm had died down a bit, though there was still no sign of a clearing. He was just about to drift off, lulled by the calming tapping of the raindrops on the windowpane, when he heard it again.

It was slightly different from the melody that Sherlock had been plaguing John with, though its undertones recalled it. It was as if Sherlock had readapted it to make it sound less powerful and more alluring, perhaps following the pattern of the storm that was just now starting to dissipate. John allowed himself to picture the man’s silhouette standing by the window, bow in hand, eyes closed, as he got lost into the serpentine swirl of notes that came from his Stradivarius. He imagined approaching him, studying the minimum changes of expression on his face from up close, following the way his lips parted when he let the music take the lead.

In one split second, John felt a shiver run through the entirety of his body and culminate in the lower region of his torso. His eyes fluttered open and he found himself staring up at the ceiling, short breath, cheeks flushed and a familiar feeling of _desire_ pooling at the bottom of his abdomen. Had the mere fantasy of Sherlock playing the violin elicited such a responsive reaction from him?

So it seemed.

Was John willing to look into it and try to understand the reason behind said reaction?

Absolutely not. Not right then, at least.

He was going to let his momentary sexual frustration subside, and eventually work up the courage to leave his room once and for all. Perhaps with Sherlock playing again, it would be easier for him to sneak into the kitchen without being seen.

 _Perhaps_.

John sat up and rubbed his eyes for several seconds before he decided it was time to stand on his feet. It was hard, and he felt like an idiot for thinking it. _Fucking hell_ , there was a time when he invaded Afghanistan!

It couldn’t be worse than that.

Could it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's the composition sherlock was playing!](https://youtu.be/bBsKplb2E6Q)


	3. Sadness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a new girlfriend, and Sherlock decides it's time to face his own feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter will be from Sherlock's pov. hope you enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes never allowed himself to _feel._ Ever since he was a boy, he was taught to classify feelings and emotions under the “Transport” section of his brain. Unused, worn out by the passing of time, it had remained locked away in the depths of what had become his mind palace. Mycroft did a great job in training him, shaping him in his image and likeness, turning him into a man who never wore his heart on his sleeve. He made him _stronger_ , more prone to knowing how to handle difficult situations with the detachment that was only proper of someone who’d _suffered_ in their early days.

The only problem was that Sherlock didn’t remember what hurt him in the first place. Mycroft’s words would oftentimes sound distant and muffled in his head, echoes of a past that’s gone but not forgotten. Though the circumstances around which those words were urged out of his elder brother’s lips were still a secret that hovered menacingly inside Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock Holmes had suffered in the past, but the same way he remained oblivious to everything that wasn’t his concern, he learnt not to worry about the reason behind his pain.

It had occurred, on several occasions, that he forgot about the implications that being human carried. Humanity didn’t include immunity to emotion, of course. _Controlling_ wasn’t equal _not feeling._ He’s always dwelled on the appeal of losing the capability to _feel_ , and he came to the conclusion that he’d rather not indulge in any kind of entanglement, romantic or physical, in order to avoid the risk of becoming slave to his emotions.

Two months after meeting John Watson, Sherlock realised he miscalculated.

No lock or latch had been safe enough to keep the flood of emotions from breaking out of the door they were stored behind. It was too much to handle even for the great Sherlock Holmes.

Two months after ignoring the several wake-up calls that bounced off the walls of his mind palace, Sherlock realised it was about time he sat down in his armchair and re-evaluated his – sentimental – situation. No matter how disgusting the concept sounded to him upon thinking it.

It was a gloomy spring night when Sherlock decided to sit down with his… _feelings._ Perfect timing, since John was out and about with his new date (whom he’d already forgotten the name of. Sandy? Samara? Sonia? It didn’t matter anyway).

They’d just solved a huge case revolving around an ancient Chinese smuggling ring – quite exciting, as Sherlock saw it – and John had required _some alone time with his girlfriend without the unasked for and undesired presence of one Sherlock Holmes, at least just for one night_. That was exactly what John said; Sherlock memorised it, and he had agreed to leaving him undisturbed until further notice. If this notice ever came.

Sherlock had carefully pondered on which piece to play on his violin while he engaged in the abhorrent activity of facing feelings that had been neglected for such a long time. After minutes of thorough thinking, he eventually settled upon Chopin.

It wasn’t a recurring choice of Sherlock’s, mostly for two reasons: Chopin mainly composed for piano, and the majority of his compositions were of a more romantic, sentimental nature; and anyone familiar with Sherlock most definitely knew he kept a distance from anything of the sort.

But tonight… something deep within his heart needed to be moved, to be brought to life and taken apart. Tonight, Sherlock knew, was for introspection.

Violin propped up underneath his chin, bow tensed, he finally began to play. The melody carried a melancholic aura, a bittersweet, nostalgic halo that started blowing gently around Sherlock’s frame, and that later on settled upon the darker corners of the room, making them appear thick with emotion.

The game of shadows ruled the width of the room, gave solidity to the silence, and texture to the notes. The crackling of the hearth added up to the saddened atmosphere, allowing Sherlock to close his eyes and slip into a trance-like state. The gates of his mind palace swung opened to swallow him whole, muscle memory taking over his playing.

And there Sherlock Holmes went, wandering across empty halls and latched doors, wearing his heart on his sleeve for the first time in years. Overexposed, vulnerable, he’d never felt more unarmed.

*

The slamming of a door, followed by the muffled thudding noise of footsteps startled him awake. Giggles and whispers arose from the foyer, only interrupted by the smacking sound of stolen kisses in between shared words. It took Sherlock less than a fraction of second to recognise John’s voice among those intimate whispers.

His eyes fluttered open.

To his surprise, Sherlock had managed to keep playing, despite being abruptly distracted. Brilliant. Just in time to delight John — and his _date_ — with his _emotional_ and _sentimental_ music.

“Enjoying the soundtrack?”

John stopped in his tracks upon hearing Sherlock’s voice when he reached the landing. His _girlfriend_ followed suit, looking rather confused at the comment. John frowned, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“Oh. Hello, Sherlock. Did you h—”

“Thought it might fit the moment, despite the fairly dark undertones. Would you rather I played something more… suitable for your needs and circumstance?”

“What the _hell_ are you on about?!”

But Sherlock didn’t reply. He kept playing instead, melody a little bit too heavy with emotion, almost bordering on dramatic. He kept his eyes open and focused on John, completely ignoring the woman standing by his side – on purpose.

Something shifted in John’s eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Only vigilant eyes would be able to detect it, and Sherlock was grateful for his own pair. Their glares met, establishing a connection that didn’t need words of any sort. _Whatever-was-the-name-of-John’s-date_ probably must have felt the tension, the anger, the frustration, the jealousy that radiated off of Sherlock, because she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, uncomfortably clearing her throat.

What she didn’t seem to notice though, was the subtle hint of sadness that Sherlock’s eyes gave away.

“Right. Keep being weird. We’re going upstairs.” John cleared his own throat, and with that, he took the woman’s hand and dragged her along with him. And upstairs they went, leaving the suffered playing of Sherlock’s violin behind.

It wasn’t long before it started, the so unmistakable sound of … _no._ It wasn’t fair. Sherlock should be the one to draw those sounds out of John’s lips, he should be the one making him beg and plead and come apart under the touch of _his_ hands. _Him_ and not her. Not anyone else.

The music coming from his violin increased in intensity, trying to overpower the muffled thuds of the headboard against the wall, the squeaking of the bed on its slats, the sporadic grunts that not even the walls managed to absorb. He was at a loss for what to do. Playing seemed to be the only activity that could keep up with his obnoxiously vivid _feeling._

Not even remotely soon enough the noises stopped, and so did the playing. Sherlock’s arm had started to hurt, the notes had lost their pathos, and the detective’s mind had detached itself from his spent body, thoughts running loose down the deserted hallways of his mind palace. A second later, everything fell quiet, and so did his thinking. He’d fallen asleep.

*

“Sherlock?”

“ _Sherlock?”_

A familiar hand nudged his side, and the detective’s eyes flung open. He batted his long lashes for a solid moment before realising that John was kneeling right in front of him, his hand placed on top of his leg. As Sherlock shifted a little in his armchair, he realised something was missing.

“My violin. Where’s my violin?”

“I put it away. You fell asleep while you were playing. Christ, when was the last time you slept?”

Sherlock squinted, trying to get up on his feet, but a firm hand pushed him right back into his seat, holding him there.

“Oh— _no._ Where do you think you’re going?”

“Let me go,” Sherlock managed, but his words slurred together. He was too sleepy to actually fight John’s grip.

“Answer my question first. When did you last sleep?”

“Why would that matter?”

“Answer it.”

Sherlock sighed, but complied nonetheless. “Don’t remember. Two… three days ago?”

“Jesus Christ Sherlock, you need sleep! Come on now, let me take you to bed.”

John’s hands were much stronger than his own, their grip firm around Sherlock’s arms as he pulled him up on his feet. At first the doctor had expected some resistance, but little did he know Sherlock enjoyed the way only John was able to boss him around, even with an instruction as simple as telling him to go sleep.

They made their way to Sherlock’s bedroom, the taller man relying on the shorter, for the tiredness in his bones felt as though it was devouring him whole. The psychological weariness added up to his fatigue; Sherlock could feel the weight of his thoughts loading his skull, threatening to shatter it into pieces.

As soon as they reached the bedroom, and consequently, the bed, John readily pushed Sherlock on top of it, preventing him from wriggling out of his grasp.

“Get under the covers. Under the covers, Sherlock. Doctor’s orders.”

And perhaps it was because of the way in which John said it, his tone firm and imposing, or because he was too tired and his body too worn out from the lack of complete sleep, but Sherlock obliged. After kicking off his shoes, he lifted up the hem of his blankets and sneaked underneath them, curling up into the pleasant warmth. If that was what _being overexposed to feeling_ turned him into, a pathetic bundle of limbs and tiredness, then he shouldn’t have let himself close to anything of the sort, ever again.

It was a promise he had intended to maintain and that he’d found himself breaking several times since John Watson had become part of his life.

Sherlock’s brain shut off the moment his train of thoughts dissolved like a cloud of steam, and he was asleep again, in a matter of seconds.

John waited by his side for some more minutes, making sure he wasn’t trying to trick him into believing that he was sleeping.

The loud sound of snoring coming from his half-opened mouth was telling enough. John smiled, warm and fond, his deep blue eyes studying each and every feature of the detective's face, dimly lit by the yellow light of the bedroom. He beheld whatever was worth taking in: each sharp edge and defined outline, every curl and every imperfection, the way his lashes rested upon his pale cheeks and how his already plump lips were squeezed between his pillow and his shoulder.

The doctor’s gaze softened upon seeing how peacefully asleep the detective was, with all his guards down, almost as vulnerable as he had been the first time he’d heard him play. Incredible how utterly human he looked now that he was sound asleep, now that he didn’t have any witty remarks to surprise people with, now that his mouth was shut and his body had given in to tiredness.

Sherlock looked fragile, innocent, pure, and John couldn’t bring himself to stop staring. Washed over by a sudden urge to touch him, his fingers flew up to run across the curls that grazed his forehead, being careful not to wake him. He lingered there for a few seconds, marveling at how soft his hair was, at how shiny and smooth it felt underneath his touch, just like he had imagined. John’s eyes fell on Sherlock’s jawline, and he was tempted to touch there too, but it would’ve been too risky.

So, he settled for staring, boring his blue eyes into his skin, exploring every angle, every portion and patch, as though he was dissecting him with just his gaze.

In other words, John looked at Sherlock the same way a man who’s hopelessly, irretrievably, unmistakably in love would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the piece Sherlock was playing is [nocturne no 20 in C# minor](https://youtu.be/VvVX-6zb5N8), arranged for piano and violin.


	4. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night after the pool, Sherlock tries to make John understand that he's his priority and John gets brave. Well, almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry if this chapter took me a while to post, but i was struggling with my mental health. now that i'm doing better, it's finally here!! also. please bear with me. all the juicy stuff will happen in the next two chapters. good things come to those who wait. i promise!! in the meanwhile, enjoy this introspective chapter.

Death. John had looked it in the eye, more than once, and every single time he’d greeted it like an old friend. This time in particular, he had seen it coming: cold, like the water from the pool, sharp, like the air surrounding him, stifling, like the beating of his heart. He’d seen it arrive, he’d bowed before it, though he hadn’t snapped. Always a fighter, never a surrenderer.

But Sherlock was going to die, too, and he hated it. He hated the idea of letting him go this soon, hated being so powerless in the sight of fate. He’d wished things would go differently; he’d wondered what he would do in case he was given a second chance.

For starters, he’d want to confess. Confess what? Everything and nothing at all, what he thought was necessary and what he considered superfluous. He would want to talk to Sherlock, pour his heart out like he never had before. He’d want to stare into those mysterious eyes one last time, irises that carried as many secrets as their shades of blue and green.

The truth was, John Watson wasn’t actually ready to die. He was relatively young and had far more regrets than a man his age should be allowed to have.

It was sheer luck that Moriarty had decided to spare him and Sherlock, that night at the pool. John had recognised it as the sign he’d been waiting for: he was finally given another chance, and this time he wasn’t going to waste it.

Sarah ended things with him nights before meeting Moriarty, simply because they weren’t working.

“I saw the way you look at him,” she said. At that point, John had wanted to act confused, though even he knew, deep down, that she was right. There was hardly any place left in his heart for someone who wasn’t Sherlock, and his girlfriend had understood it before himself. It’s not like he didn’t care, because he did. He simply didn’t think of his girlfriend as much as he thought of Sherlock, though that apparently hadn’t rung any bells until Sarah brought it up.

Afterwards, he had decided to stop dating and give himself some time to dwell on his feelings and think about the right words to use for his confession. Now he only had to decide _when._ The toughest part, if anyone were to ask him.

But then the encounter with Moriarty had happened, and even if just for a moment, John had seen everything blow up in his face.

*

When they got back home that night, neither of them wanted to retire to their rooms. John lingered on the threshold of the sitting room, his legs still weak and trembling. He looked over at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked back at him, holding his gaze for as long as it was humanly possible, and they both said nothing at all for what felt like minutes.

There was something comforting about the silence that cast upon them. The quietness carried the familiar awareness that they were alive, and living that moment despite the lack of words. Because, John figured, there weren’t enough words to describe how he felt in that moment, and how happy he was that neither of them got killed that night.

The staring continued until the weariness prevailed and it led John to make his way towards his armchair by the hearth. He sat down and looked up yet once again to find Sherlock’s gaze still on him. The intensity of his gaze was almost painful, to an extent that he felt it prickle on his skin, prodding at his flesh as though it wanted to crawl underneath it, and settle into his bones. John’s lips parted as he observed how Sherlock’s slender figure stood completely motionless, pondering, studying.

After what felt like ages, and just as though Sherlock read it in the way John was looking up at him, he turned to pick up his Stradivarius and began to play.

Two in the morning. Violin music was filling up the dimly lit room ever so gently, like the rose coloured fingers of a dawn that had yet to branch out across the pitch black London skies. John’s blue eyes were stuck on Sherlock’s, and the more he played, the safer he felt. Music was indeed a cure, a means to express ideas and feelings without the overbearing weight of words.

And in that case, after what had been a long night, John finally found himself at ease. It didn’t take him much to get used to Sherlock’s music: on the contrary, he welcomed it every time he heard it. It was as though his body positively reacted to the sound of the strings, but specifically when it was Sherlock playing them. He tried listening to classical music – even though it wasn’t exactly his cup of tea – and despite having enjoyed it, he realised that _nothing_ came even close to what Sherlock was capable of.

His music was John’s soul healer, wherever it landed, it resided. Whether it was in John’s head or in his heart, the doctor was never reluctant to accept it.

Hearing Sherlock play that night was probably even better than hearing him say something. What could he possibly say, anyway? That he was glad that they didn’t get themselves killed? That he was glad that that psychopath changed his mind and let them live?

Sherlock had already made sure John was doing alright. He asked him at the pool, before Moriarty walked back in for a second time. But even _better_ than that, he showed him he cared, by dropping to his knees before John and ripping his coat off like both their lives depended on it. And, paradoxically, they did.

John closed his eyes, trying to let the music lull him to better thoughts. But somehow it was impossible for him to divert his attention from the way Sherlock had looked earlier that night, knelt down before him, his eyes as wide as they’ll ever get, fingers fumbling with his coat, struggling to get rid of it because his hands were shaking.

He would remember the way Sherlock had looked at him until his dying breath. Urgency behind those sea coloured eyes, and fear overflowing from them. But the most puzzling thing of all was that even when he was terrified, Sherlock managed to look beautiful. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t.

Their gazes had locked, though John had been left completely out of breath and he hadn’t quite known what to say. Words would come to him later on, when it was too late to speak.

When the doctor reopened his eyes, he found that Sherlock was _still_ watching him. At this point, he started doubting he’d looked somewhere else rather than his face. Not that the idea bothered him; on the contrary, it made him feel a certain type of way. It made him feel _wanted_.

John closed his hands around the armrests of his red chair and squeezed, his nails digging further in the fabric, as if they were mimicking the effect that Sherlock’s gaze was having on his skin. And even at that, the taller man didn’t look away. The music was rising in intensity, and even if Sherlock wasn’t paying nearly as much attention to his playing as he was to John, he made no mistakes whatsoever. He managed to stay in tune and to be perfectly precise, and John _gaped_ at it.

He then licked his lips. The gesture was quick, but certainly not casual, and obviously it didn’t go unnoticed. Sherlock’s gaze flicked down so quickly it was almost imperceptible to catch, but luckily enough, John was completely alert to notice it. So he did it again. And this time, Sherlock mirrored his gesture.

Never even _once_ had John seen his flatmate lick his lips, or perhaps he never paid attention to it. There was something captivating about it, something that made John stare back, almost as intensely as Sherlock did. Or, perhaps, even more than that. Truth be told, most of the times John couldn’t quite control himself when it came to Sherlock. The remaining times, he simply didn’t _want_ to.

He should go to sleep. He _really_ should. He couldn’t risk doing something that he was going to regret immediately. Not tonight. He wasn’t going to spoil the most intimate moment they’d ever shared. Not even that night when John tucked Sherlock in had been nearly as intense. Right now, they were both aware of the moment, holding each other’s gazes for far too long, and enjoying it far too much.

Christ.

“It’s late.”

John let out. He immediately regretted speaking.

Sherlock seemed puzzled by the suddenness of his words, though his playing remained unchanged. How he managed to do that, John wasn’t very sure. He did look a bit taken aback though, his eyebrows slightly furrowed and eyes narrowed. At that, John realised that Sherlock’s reaction wasn’t due to his own words; it was due to the fact that he wasn’t expecting John to talk _at all._

Well, he really fucked it up then.

John scratched the back of his neck and felt the sudden rush of blood rise to his cheeks. What if Sherlock wanted him to make a move? What if all that staring had been some kind of a sign? A breach in his stoic personality? When John stood up, the music stopped.

“I… Have to work in the morning. So… _”_

 _“_ You should call in sick.”

Silence. Sherlock continued.

“It wouldn't be wise to go to work after the amount of distress your body’s been subjected to. You should also rest.” There was something different in Sherlock’s tone, and it took John a while to realise that it was because he hadn’t spoken up to that moment. It was the first time he said something in hours.

“Yes… yes, good idea.”

Sherlock hummed in response, as he turned to place his Stradivarius back into its case.

Silence fell in the flat. Silence above their heads, silence all around them, silence between them. And all that silence brought nothing but _coldness._ When Sherlock turned around, he found John still standing behind him, a wondering look in his face.

A part of him, the most irrational one, was afraid that once departed from the sitting room, Sherlock was going to disappear. He was afraid to lose the man he’d fallen for. The man whose life he cared about more than his own.

Sherlock strode closer. He was now towering over John, tall and lean like a pillar, almost intimidating. His eyes, wide and wondering, scrutinised him as if he were under study. And perhaps he was.

_Go to sleep, John._

“Goodnight, then.” John’s voice was barely audible, a ripple in that ocean of silence.

“Yes.”

A rumble in the skies above, Sherlock’s voice cast immediate shadows upon the cold waters, first hint of an oncoming storm. And John, a sailor who had to choose whether to venture into the deep or swim towards the shore.

Oh, but the fascination of the storm, so powerful and mysterious, so dangerous, calling him, drawing him in…

John leant in ever so slightly, and Sherlock pinned him down with his gaze, until he felt unable to move any further. John could feel the detective's breath on his skin, hot and tingly, for his lips were parted and he was breathing through them. When John tilted his chin up to meet his eyes, Sherlock did the same, following his moves like a curious cat. This time though, his gaze aimed for John’s lips – and John’s for Sherlock’s.

But the storm never broke through.

The doctor stepped back, resumed his military stance and cleared his dry throat. _Fear._

“Yes. Goodnight, Sherlock.” And with that he retired to his room.

Back to the shore he swam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i imagined sherlock would play [sonata no.1 in G minor](https://youtu.be/x9gGLYCeH2Q), which is the same one he plays in TRF when moriarty comes to 221B. i suppose it's one of those tunes sherlock will always associate with fear.


	5. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't sleep, Sherlock _doesn't_ sleep. Perhaps a late night conversation in the kitchen is all they've ever needed.

That night John couldn’t sleep. He laid supine on his bed, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling every time a car drove by. He listened to the whooshing sound of the tyres on the wet asphalt when they encountered puddles by the sidewalk, even tried to let the white noise of the rain lull him to sleep. But he couldn’t close his eyes without being completely pervaded by Sherlock’s distinct scent, or without reminiscing how warm and pleasingly damp his breath felt on his lips.

John rolled onto his side to check the time on his nightstand’s clock. 3:07 am. Running both his hands across his face, he figured that perhaps sleep wouldn't be on his schedule that night.

“Right.” He sighed. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well go downstairs and have a cuppa. He also completely forgot he skipped dinner that evening — and lunch, now that he thought about it. Following Sherlock on cases left little to no room for basic needs.

The only risk, John figured, would be walking in on Sherlock doing some experiment in the kitchen, for he highly doubted he went to sleep. Upon thinking about what happened an hour earlier, the idea of even just _existing_ with Sherlock in the same room as him made his stomach knot in anxiety. John eventually sat up, but it seemed as though his stomach wasn’t going to leave him alone anytime soon. When the knotting subsided to churning, John grimaced and finally stood up, aiming for the door. At this point, he just had to hope that Sherlock was in his room.

As soon as he stepped out on the landing, after putting some distance between him and the only window in his room, he began hearing muffled notes coming from downstairs. Well then, Sherlock definitely wasn’t in his room. A sigh, as the doctor started descending the first set of stairs.

The storm had worsened overtime, rain got thicker, droplets heavier, and the first rumble of thunder could be heard in the close distance. John made it down the first set, reaching the second landing just moments before lightning lit up the entire flat with a pale, blue flash of light. He stopped, closed his eyes and waited for the thunder to strike. The roaring came seconds later, it echoed in John’s ears and made his heart falter. He _really_ didn’t like thunderstorms.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself leaning against the wall, heart pounding in his chest, hands and feet cold as ice.

The music now was more distinct, and it sounded slightly different from the other times John heard Sherlock play. The sound was more… muffled, contained, less acute. John climbed down the last set of stairs and his curiosity got the best of him. He peeked inside the living room to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair, wearing dark blue pyjama bottoms and a white tee. His silk blue nightgown was open in the middle and gently unfolded at the sides, falling upon the armrests. He was barefoot, his legs stretched before him, long and slender, and his fingers were fiddling with the strings of his violin.

The bow had been forgotten on the table at his right, and his fingers were now plucking at the strings, playing a sweet melody. The playing was so soft and delicate that John wondered if the sound came indeed from his Stradivarius and not from a recording. He decided not to disturb the man and turned on his heel to make his way to the kitchen, but when one of the wooden tiles of the landing creaked under his foot John knew he just gave himself away.

“Having trouble falling asleep?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled quietly.

John sighed and crossed the threshold to the kitchen, emerging from the door. “Yeah. I’m not fond of thunderstorms.”

“I know. PTSD.”

Sherlock said, while he kept plucking.

“I’m making tea. Want some?”

“Hm,” a pause, while Sherlock’s eyes remained focused on his own instrument, “No.”

Right. John frowned, lingering some more moments because he knew Sherlock was prone to adding things after he stopped talking for a while. After a minute of silence though, John muttered a feeble “ _alright”_ and walked back towards the kitchen.

John looked up from the stove where he’d just settled the kettle and focused on how the rainwater fell in rivulets down the windowpane. It seemed as if Sherlock’s delicate music was following the stream, accompanying it to a more accommodating fall. This piece was very romantic, carrying an extra hint of sorrow and melancholy. It was simply beautiful. _Unusual choice,_ John thought as he leant back against the kitchen table. _Sherlock is more for mysterious and extremely classic pieces._ Thinking about it, this song was similar to the one he’d played that time when he took Sarah home. In a way, it carried the same amount of…

_Oh_.

Sadness. 

“The most common misconception about Schubert was that he invented his compositions by mere chance. Critics would oftentimes claim that he wasn’t half as good as the classical geniuses such as Bach or Beethoven, because according to them he did not care for the craft of composition. It took them years of misinformation to realise how wrong they were. Their claims were groundless, moved by the unconventionalities of Schubert’s compositions. As I see it, he was a _thinking_ artist, keen on experimentations. His adventurousness might not have been appreciated by most people in the past, or, should I say, most _idiots_ , but he’s been appreciated by future generations. His creations were misjudged because they were considered _different_ from the plain standards of social convention. He was… hard to unravel. An outcast.”

Sherlock’s voice rumbled in the silence of the room and caught John unprepared. His mouth was agape as he listened to his words. Not even once did he stutter, and if he did stop to catch his breath then John didn’t notice.

“What? Why are you telling me this?”

“Do you know who opened up the world’s eyes so it could learn to appreciate Schubert’s genius, John?”

At this point, the doctor was utterly confused. He looked over at Sherlock with huge bewilderment and shook his head.

“The only man who was able to see right through him. A composer who lived after Schubert died, but who nurtured deep adoration and respect for him. The only man who didn’t refer to him as a _freak_ , but as a _genius_. The. _Only_. Man.”

If there was a word to describe the way Sherlock was looking at him, then John couldn’t find it. His gaze was so intense it left a burning sensation in its wake, and the doctor had to shift uncomfortably on his feet under its power. He still didn’t understand. Why did Sherlock go off on a tangent about _Schubert_? Was he the composer of the piece he was playing?

“I don’t understand.”

Then Sherlock stood up.

He put his violin away next to the bow on the desk and crossed the sitting room in slow and short strides. John swallowed.

“You’ve never been the most luminous of people, John, but at this point I’d dare say you do not _want_ to understand.” Sherlock said, as if it were the most obvious thing on Earth.

Then, when he finally was at a reasonable distance from John, he spoke again.

“You wanted to kiss me before.”

John’s heart fluttered so hard that he heard it thumping in his throat, in his stomach and in his ears all at once. He stood there, slack-jawed, inches away from Sherlock, utterly speechless.

Then the kettle whistled.

“Fuck,” John cursed, rushing to the stove and turning it off. He took advantage of his current position to take a deep breath and close his eyes, but his heart was still beating like crazy and it was of little to no help.

When he turned around, he flinched. Sherlock was standing behind him, so beautiful yet so intimidating. When did he step closer? John had no idea. He’d been too busy panicking over the words he just told him.

“You wanted to kiss me,” Sherlock repeated with a certain nonchalance, narrowing his eyes. “Why didn’t you?”

“ _I_ …” Christ, his throat was too dry. He needed a moment.

“You looked at my lips, even leant in for a moment, but then you got cold feet and left. _Why.”_

_“_ Sherlock I _don’t–“_

_“_ No. You _do._ Stop pretending and tell me _why_ you didn’t kiss me even if you had the evidence that I wanted you to.”

John’s confused expression was dropped in favour of shock.

“Sorry what?”

“Wasn’t I being blatantly obvious?”

Oh. _Oh._

“You wanted me to kiss you,” John said and, Christ, those words sounded insane when he let them out in the open.

“Obviously.”

His stomach flipped so intensely that John had to inhale sharply through his nose for a long moment. He didn’t release his breath straight away; he held it in until his lungs burned and his head spun, until Sherlock stepped even closer and he found it impossible to hold back.

“Do you want me to kiss you _now_?”

Sherlock’s perfectly plump lips parted, as if he was getting ready to say something, but when he closed them again and looked right at the shorter man’s mouth, John knew.

No further words needed.

John’s lips were on Sherlock’s before he could reconsider it. His hands settled upon his shoulders to push him down at his own height, and as a result of the hard tug they both stumbled backwards, John ending up with his backside against the hot stove.

“Fucking Christ!” he cursed stepping away from the cookers, but when he looked up at Sherlock and went in for another kiss, he noticed he was laughing. God, his laughter was absolutely beautiful, a deep growl gurgling out of his parted lips, so contagious. John was laughing back before he even realised it, throwing his arms around Sherlock’s neck and making sure that this time there weren’t any more boiling objects at arse’s length.

The kiss wasn’t even a _proper_ kiss at first, their mouths pressed together in wide smirks, not even moving. But then Sherlock draped one of his long arms around John’s lower back and let his free hand travel up to his hair, and John dropped his grin and sighed in pleasure. Sherlock’s grip was firm around his back now, and his slender fingers were tugging at John’s hair hurriedly, as if to spur him on. It didn’t dawn on John what they were doing until Sherlock parted his lips and encouraged him to dip his tongue past them. _Christ._ Sherlock’s mouth was hot and slick and velvety, and his tongue coated John’s so perfectly that it drew a moan out of his throat, so effortlessly.

And as if they coined a new language made out of moans and whimpers, Sherlock replied with a sound of his own, guttural and needy, and John couldn’t even begin to think _how_ it was possible that he was the one to urge them out of his throat.

John’s hands took hold of Sherlock’s sides and soon enough he was shoved against the table in the middle of the room. The rattling of Sherlock’s rubbish didn’t startle them, and Sherlock clearly didn’t seem to care if John knocked any of his experiments off its surface. John leaned on Sherlock and pulled his lips away just the necessary distance to sink his teeth in his bottom lip and _tug._ The response was positive, for the taller man whimpered and leant in, and _God_ who would have thought that Sherlock could enjoy snogging sessions against the kitchen table?

“I really do hope none of these liquids are bloody corrosive, Sherlock.” John panted after he knocked off a vial with his elbow, liquid spilling onto the floor.

“Don’t worry, they’re all experiments on natur- _ah! John.”_

John grinned against his throat, where his tongue had just licked a strip that went from his Adam’s apple to the portion of collarbone that had remained uncovered by his tee. His left knee had been propped up and pressed against Sherlock’s groin, experimentally. Apparently, the detective enjoyed that more than he’d expected.

“Don’t stop. Please. _John._ ”

The level of desperation in Sherlock’s voice was off the rails, to an extent that John couldn’t believe his ears. He pressed the knee further in between his legs, offering him the same amount of friction he’d provided before, and he was soon rewarded with the detective’s sweet sounds. _Fuck_ , John was washed over by the impelling urge to taste and swallow every single one of them. And so he did, forcing his lips open against Sherlock’s and drinking in every whimper and whine that threatened to leave the taller man’s throat.

Sherlock’s body twitched beneath John’s every time he rocked his hips down, seeking more friction. But John, the good tease he was, withdrew his leg and left Sherlock to hump the air for a moment. _Christ_. It was too much, even for him. At that, the taller man groaned in frustration.

“John. Oh, _John,_ you’re despicable. Please, please keep… _keep_ …”

A devilish smirk appeared on the doctor’s lips. “Keep _what_ , Sherlock?”

“Keep… I need… I…”

But words seemed to fail him. Sherlock reached out for John’s shirt, his hands balling up in his tee and pulling him down against him. The result was disastrous. John, who was heavier than Sherlock and had little to no balance left in his body, fell flat right on top of him, causing pipes and petri dishes and _whatever else was on that table_ to fly off its surface and crash to the floor. Brilliant. If they didn’t wake Mrs Hudson up before, they sure did now.

“Shit _shitshit.”_

Once again, Sherlock didn’t care. His hands, wide and flat on John’s back, pushed him down while he arched up and frotted relentlessly against his hipbone. For a few moments, he let Sherlock take what he wanted and simply observed with lust-darkened eyes.

“Fuck, Sherlock. Tell me… tell me what you want.” It was hard to think, let alone speak, with Sherlock’s hard cock against his hip, his hands on his back, his perfectly lean body writhing in pleasure beneath John’s. His senses were full of Sherlock, of his scent, of his taste, of his moans, of how he felt, of how he looked. John was ecstatic.

He groaned, lips brushing against the shell of the taller man’s ear, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. John’s desire to explore every inch of Sherlock’s body and find the right buttons to press was even stronger than his need to chase after his own pleasure. Eager to please, he got off on the power he had over his flatmate.

“John. _John._ ” Sherlock moaned, as if that was the answer to all the questions he’d been asked in his life. “Your hands. Your mouth. _You_. I want you to have me the same way you look at me, because I know, I always see you. I want to feel you in my bones, underneath my skin, in my lungs, I want you to occupy the rest of my rational thoughts and make them all about you. I want you to make me yours, John Watson, I want you to take apart every inch of me and then pick up every piece to put me back together. I want to give you my body and let you use it as you please, I want you to understand how you make me feel, how positively feral you make me, how much I’ve wanted you and for how long I have. I want you to see the way you affect me.”

Sherlock finally stopped to catch his breath, and _oh God,_ John didn’t know what to say in return. Incredible, that’s what he was. Hearing him talk like that, pouring his heart out and letting John listen, making himself vulnerable in John’s eyes, as if he were a body on the slab, ready to be dissected by his doctor.

“Jesus, Sherlock…” John breathed against his neck, while his hands reached down between them to hook the elastic of his bottoms. “Let me…”

Sherlock didn’t let him finish his sentence. He jumped back up on his feet, with an agility that John could only wish to have in his dreams, and steadied himself on John’s shoulders. With a swift tug, he managed to push both Sherlock’s trousers and pants down his impossibly long legs. Upon the sight of his hard cock springing free, John immediately dropped to his knees, nosing along the underside.

“ _Ohhh,_ John,” the reaction was immediate. Sherlock dipped his head back and took hold of the front edge of the table, to prevent his legs from giving out.

John smirked against Sherlock’s cock and looked up, watching the taller man from under his lashes. He settled his hands on each of the detective’s thighs, for better hold, and kept them parted as he started licking the shaft from its base to its head. Once on top, John parted his mouth to suckle on the tip, tongue swirling and sweeping off the beads of precum as they slipped past the slit. He hummed around the head, licking it clean, as Sherlock cried out and squirmed beneath him. The taller man's hand came down to card his fingers through John’s hair and _pull._

_“Fuck,_ ” John cursed right onto Sherlock’s cock and finally, _finally_ , took him in.

John didn’t have much experience in sucking cock. Well… actually, he had _no_ experience whatsoever. His knowledge was limited to porn videos and vivid wet dreams he had about Sherlock — and his past male crushes. Though apparently his little knowledge was paying off, because it looked as though Sherlock had been sent into orbit around the Sun. Fucking Christ, he was otherworldly.

“John. John?”

“Hm.” The doctor hummed in reply, while he started bobbing his head up and down eagerly. Whatever more Sherlock had to say, he was going to make it impossible for him to let it out.

“ _Your mouth was made to suck cock._ ”

_Ah._

Well.

John didn’t know what to say. He looked up, completely raptured and taken aback by Sherlock’s dirty mouth. He didn’t expect such things to ever leave him, posh and put together as he was; hell, he’d never even once heard him swear.

He must have stopped moving because seconds later he felt Sherlock’s hips snap up underneath him, and his cock buried a little bit deeper inside his mouth. He closed his eyes and groaned around it, resuming his pace and picking it up just a little, with even more enthusiasm than before. Sherlock appreciated it, because he started fucking higher up,his now lost experiments and empty containers rattling around him.

“Ah, _yes,_ John. You’re so good, so perfect, _oh yes you’re sublime._ Please. Please- _ah, John…_ ”

The shorter man parted his lips from Sherlock’s erection with an obscene wet sound and looked up at him, mouth glistening with saliva and precum. “You want to come, eh? You want to come so bad,” he whispered against the head of his cock. “You’re trembling with it, your legs are so weak you can’t stand up, even if you tried. Even if you wanted to.”

John closed his eyes and let his own lust take over. He closed his fist around the base of Sherlock’s shaft and started pumping, first up and then down, but he didn’t take him back in his mouth. Instead, he kept whispering dirty things right onto his cock, occasionally licking the head clean from the several spurts of precome that inevitably slipped from its slit. “You’re so hot, so good for me, you love my mouth, don’t you? It’s written all over your face, it’s written in your moans, _God_ , the sounds you make. Louder, Sherlock. Louder. For me.”

And Sherlock complied, because how couldn’t he? He let his mouth fall open and his head tilt back, and cried out one last moan before he came, all over John’s mouth. John closed his eyes, gently parted his lips against the reddened tip and welcomed each and every spurt, even the ones that reached his forehead, without a single flinch. From that angle, he could feel Sherlock tremble and shiver upon the power of his orgasm, and even when he was done, he kept shaking and whimpering words that John struggled to make out.

After a few moments, John slowly stood back up, fingers digging in Sherlock’s thighs for leverage and extra balance. He almost collapsed on top of the taller man, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Fuck Sherlock, you are…”

But he didn’t even make it in time to finish his sentence. Sherlock’s lips were on him once again, tongue indecently licking away at every strip of come on John’s mouth, chin, and even forehead. Christ, it all was so dirty and uncomfortable, but so _hot._ His still hard cock twitched in his pants, demanding attention, and when John’s hand was dropped down to palm himself through his pyjama bottoms, Sherlock readily took hold of his wrist and pushed it away.

Even his bloody perfect reflexes were hot, John thought, as the detective stood up and fisted his hands in his hair to pull him in and crash their lips together. The motion was so swift and strong that John stumbled back on his feet and ploughed into the cupboard. He hissed, but didn’t dare pull away. Sherlock’s tongue inside his mouth was intoxicating, just like the way his body draped over John’s, engulfing him like a warm, sticky blanket. John didn’t mind the _‘sticky’_ part at all. On the contrary, he found it quite arousing.

His entire body was still aflame, burning with a desire he’d never felt for anyone. John’s legs gave out and, his back against the cupboard, he slowly slid to the floor. He didn’t even try to hold onto anything else but Sherlock, who collapsed on the floor with John and immediately slid off his trousers and underwear. His head spun so much with need and want that he didn’t even process what was happening before Sherlock took his cock in his mouth and _sucked._ Oh, dear lord.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

How could a man be of so many talents? John squeezed his eyes shut and lifted his hips, just to find that Sherlock had swallowed him whole. Sitting on the floor, with his legs parted and Sherlock crouched between them, John could swear he was in heaven. His left hand reached down to cradle the back of Sherlock’s neck, just a moment before feeling the tip of his cock hit the back of his throat. Another filthy sound left him, and the doctor let his mouth fall open in an attempt to speak, to encourage the taller man. But words were useless, for Sherlock started to bob his head, tongue flat on the underside of John’s shaft, as he took all of him.

“Take it, _yeah,_ just like that, yes, oh God yes, _good boy_ , make me come…”

It was the way in which Sherlock looked at him afterwards that brought John over the edge. His gaze was filled with desperation and urgency to please, with lingering hints of lust that had never left his eyes, even after reaching his own climax. It wasn’t the look of a predator, it was the look of someone who was ready to give everything up for the sake of pleasing his partner. And _God_ , John could get off on that alone.

He came, hard, not even knowing how he managed to avoid a complete blackout. His body shook with violent spasms as the orgasm hit him in waves, and Sherlock welcomed every single one of them. He swallowed readily, almost gagging on John’s cock in the attempt, but his face remained unchanged. He only pulled away when he was sure that John was done, and when he felt his cock starting to soften.

Sherlock collapsed on top of John afterwards, cheek pressed up against his chest, panting. The doctor let his head fall backwards and shut his eyes, trying to regain control over his breathing. It was hard, and he had to remain silent until he was completely sure that he could let out proper words other than choked groans. But it was fine. It was perfect. Pure bliss.

With his hand draped loosely around Sherlock’s waist, John lifted his heavy lids and took a look at the mess they made of the kitchen. Containers scattered on the floor, liquids spilt all over the already dirty tiles, a pile of garbage resided on the table.

“Jesus, would you look at that,” he said, and Sherlock laughed. John realised that he could have kept laughing for the rest of their lives and he wouldn’t have minded.

“We’ll have to clean up. You know that, right?”

Sherlock hummed in reply.

“Mrs H would kill us if she saw the kitchen in this condition.”

Another hum coming from Sherlock, this time followed by a gentle wiggle of his hips, while he shifted a bit into John’s arms.

“That was… _amazing,”_ John marvelled, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“It was quite amazing, yeah.” It was the first time Sherlock spoke in minutes. His voice, as hoarse and deep as it sounded, was the most erotic thing John had ever heard.

The detective lifted his chin up to look at John, and John decided that there was nowhere else he’d rather be. He leant in and trapped Sherlock’s lips in a slow, sweet kiss, savouring every moment of it. Was it all just a dream? Was he still in his bed, trying to avoid Sherlock after their almost-kiss earlier that night? It honestly would make more sense than _this._

“I still have to ask you something though,” John said when he pulled away.

“Go on.”

“The song you were playing before, was it by Schubert? Was it the reason why you started telling me about his life?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“John, your lack of acumen at times really _is_ surprising.”

“Well, sorry if I’m not _acute_ enough to follow you on your bloody tangents about under-appreciated musicians and the story of their lives,” he replied, lifting both his eyebrows, as if he was waiting for a further explanation.

“You don’t understand. It wasn’t about him, John. It was about _me._ ”

“What in the hell does the story of a musician have to do with…”

_Oh._ John blinked. How could he be so blind? _Schubert_ , the freaky musician no one was able to appreciate, until somebody else pointed out how _great_ he really was.

John really was an idiot, then.

“It’s _you._ You were talking about you,” he said, wonder in his voice. “It was all a metaphor. You were playing _yourself_. You were opening yourself up to me. An indirect love confession…”

John almost bit his own tongue when he realised his choice of words. Fucking hell, Watson. But Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. His expression gave nothing away but fondness and something else, something deeper.

“Ständchen, by Schubert,” Sherlock then whispered, leaning his forehead on John’s.

“Ständchen?” John smiled. “What does that mean?”

“It’s German. It means _Serenade_.”

John chuckled. “Oh my God. Were you serenading me?”

“Possibly, yes.”

“Sherlock Holmes… you bloody romantic git.”

Oh, but John loved it. Silence fell in the kitchen, but it wasn’t at all unpleasant. It was that kind of silence that carried tranquillity and peace of mind, and that was to be shared between lovers.

“We should go to bed. It’s 4 in the bloody morning,” John said, wincing as he tried to sit up. “We’ll clean up tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded and rose to his feet, running his hand through his messy curls.

“You go take a shower, I’ll be right behind.” John said as he stood, and Sherlock nodded again.

“Are you going to join me in bed?” the taller man asked, almost hesitantly.

John smiled fondly. “Yes, yeah. ‘Course I will. Oh and… Sherlock?”

The detective stopped in his tracks and turned to meet John’s eyes.

“Will you keep serenading me?”

It was Sherlock's turn to smile, and John’s heart swelled. He couldn’t believe his eyes. This, _all this_ , was real. And it was happening to _him._

“Every single song I’ve played since meeting you has been about you, John Watson. Why would I stop now?” Sherlock said.

And with that, he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ständchen by Schubert](https://youtu.be/Md4GhluaSxU)


End file.
